I spent last night at a Swedish friend’s apartment, helping her get ready for the church Christmas party that was going to be at her place. It was supposed to be traditional French-style, we had decided, so she bought foie gras and toast; I made mulled wine, we had grapes and cheese and couscous salad and pasta salad and canapes and baguette of course, and rose wine and chocolate covered strawberries... It was amazing. And somehow it seems that no matter where I end up I always am one of the sort-of hostesses of the Christmas party of the year, as my friends and I in the States always do the same thing.
I got to Lydia’s apartment a few hours before everyone else was supposed to so that I could help cook, decorate, etc. We put the wine on to cook, cut and washed salad, chopped veggies, all in her tiny kitchen. Wait a minute– this kitchen is legitimately no bigger than... well, a walk-in closet. Two people can fit in it ONLY if neither of them is doing anything, they stand shoulder to shoulder, and the one on the doorway side leaves before the other. So fitting the two of us in there for a few hours was... excruciating. The top of the cabinet became the shelf for already cooked pasta, which had to be made in 4 sections because there was not a pot big enough to hold it all by itself. The couscous was the same; but the drainer Lydia has is less of a drainer and more of just a hole– the bottom is mostly broken out, so it doesn’t really work... at all. The pot of couscous had to be put in a kitchen cabinet after it was made because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else... Add to this the fact that Lydia, though fluent in English, is still Swedish, and I, though learning French, do not know words like "strainer," "ladle," "nutmeg," etc. AND I still don’t really understand measurements here (in grams and milliliters) or temperatures (in Celsius), and you have quite an adventure.
Before the guests arrived, we had ruined my shoes by splashing them with boiling wine and olive oil, splattered both of ourselves with chocolate, butter, and orange juice, and nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.
Excerpts of my favorite conversations of the night:
"Lydia, do you think I should put nutmeg in the mulled wine?"
"Nut what?"
"Meg?"
"Who’s that?"
"No, no, nutmeg– in the wine?"
"Oh, I don’t think mulled wine usually has nuts in it, does it?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never made it. I’m American, remember? We don’t drink it."
"Oh, well, no, then, no nuts."
"No, wait, that was not the point– it’s not nuts, it’s like... a spice. Like cinnamon– cannelle, you know? You put it in things...?"
"Oh. What’s it taste like?"
"Ummm... like pumpkin pie?"
"What is that?"
"Um, nevermind. It tastes like Christmas."
"That’s not a taste!"
"Never mind, the cinnamon will be enough I think."
No, the cinnamon was not enough. Write this down: if you are ever making mulled wine, IT MUST HAVE SUGAR IN IT. A LOT. Because somehow all the sweetness evaporates when you heat wine, so you have to add sugar. Like a lot.
Later that night:
"Hey Blair, maybe you should start making the cake now?"
"Ok, did you buy a box or are we doing it hardcore, from scratch?"
"Hardcore? What does that mean? It sounds like something only rock stars say!"
"I mean, do you have cake mix? Or should we make it from scratch?"
"Blair, I wish I could speak English like you-- you talk like a rockstar!"
"Yeah, but I am 21 years old and my own grandmother thinks I speak like a California Valley Girl!"
"I would rather talk like a California... a California what girl?... than a Swedish one with an accent! I sometimes don't understand when you talk because you go so fast. But you know all the good English expressions that I still have never learned."
"Lydia, you are nearly fluent in three languages! I would trade with you in a minute!"
"Oh, but it is so cool to listen to the Americans talk... they have such good expressions, way better than English people. But oh yeah, we have to make it from scratch, I couldn’t find any boxes at Franprix."
"Ok, where is the recipe?"
"I lost it. But it’s ok. It’s all in my memory, you know."
"Oh, ok, well you want to tell it to me?"
"Yes. My mom sent it to me. It’s a traditional Swedish cake. You start with 150 grams of butter."
Two minutes later, after the butter has already been put on to melt...
"Or maybe it is 200 grams of butter... Oh well, 150 will work. It will just be a little healthier."
"Ok, what’s the next ingredient?"
"Mmm, eggs. Yes, definitely eggs. And then do flour, sugar, and cocoa."
"How many eggs?"
"Two? Three? I don’t know, how many are usually in a cake?"
"Well, you only have two in your fridge, so I think for this cake there will be two."
So the traditional Swedish cake ended up being made with 150 grams of butter, 2 small brown eggs, all the sugar in Lydia’s apartment, about a handful of flour ("Lydia does that look like 100 grams to you?" "Sure, I mean... I think. You know, just do what you feel." "Yeah, but I don’t feel anything since I have never seen a gram of anything in my life."), 4 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder, and about 2 tablespoons of milk.
That is not the recipe for a cake.
I don’t know what is a traditional Swedish cake recipe, but I am fairly confident that is not one.
"How long should we cook it, Lyds?"
"I think, until it is dry on the top."
"At what temperature?"
"Whatever the oven is at right now when we take the toast out."
Twenty minutes later, as we are removing it from the oven...
"Um, Lydia, I didn’t put baking powder in it."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t think of it till right now, because you didn’t say it and I thought maybe they don’t use baking powder in Sweden."
"Yeah, we definitely use it. Maybe that is why the cake is so flat?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it will be chocolatey."
"How much cocoa did you put in?"
"Four spoonfuls, and then a generous sprinkle."
"Sprinkle?"
"Like, a little more."
"Oh. FOUR SPOONFULS? That powder is FRENCH cocoa– it’s like pure ground cocoa beans– it’s going to be REALLY chocolatey. Did you put enough sugar in?"
"Um, I put in all the sugar you had."
"THE WHOLE HALF A KILO?"
"I don’t know– that whole jar over there."
"Maybe we should say a prayer over it first..."
"Maybe we should taste it before we serve it."
"That’s a good idea. You are so clever, Blair."
"I like that you say ‘clever.’ It is a highly underused word in America."
"But it is English, right?"
"Yeah, you definitely got the language right."
"Blair, you have gotten stuff all over you! Is that mulled wine? And what’s that spot?"
"That’s the olive oil that spattered on me when you were trying to open the lid using my oxford shirt as a grip."
"Oh, right. Maybe you need a... what’s the word for that thing you use so you don’t make a mess?"
"A maid? Une femme de menage?"
"No, you know, like this!" Lydia explained, brandishing a dishrag like a matador.
"Apron? A tablier?"
"Exactement! Oui! Maybe you should tuck this into... I don’t know, your neck?"
"But then it would be a bib."
"Well, you have stuff all over yourself. Maybe you need it."
"All over me because you ran into me when you were holding an avocado!"
"Oh. Well, here, put this on, it will make you feel more official."
Later on...
"Blair, will you cut up the percy– the purs– parc– what do you call that green stuff in English?"
"Mold?"
"No! That plant stuff?"
"Parsley?"
"No no, not parsley! That is a name, not a salad plant! In French it’s persilia... what’s the English word?"
"Parsley!"
"No, that is a person’s name! Like that guy, Rod... Rod Parsley!"
"You mean Rod Burgundy?"
"No, who is that? Rod Parsley! The American preacher!"
"I don’t think I have heard of him. But in the US we don’t really eat parsley. We just kind of use it for... you know, garniture."
"Oh. But why don’t you eat it, since it is edible?"
"I don’t know. Lots of things are edible, but we don’t eat them all in the US. We leave that to the French. Hand it to me, I’ll cut it up and put it on the foie gras."
Ten minutes later, after the plate of foie gras crackers has been put on the table with parsley on each cracker...
"Blair, you did wash the persilia, right?"
"I thought you did!"
"No– it wasn’t wet, was it?"
"No... I just thought it had been dried really good. Oops."
"Oh well, there aren’t really that much pesticides in France at this time of year..."
"Lydia, we are like Lucy and Ethel."
"No, we are Lydia and Blair."
"No, I mean... have you ever seen ‘I Love Lucy?’"
"No, I never really played video games when I was growing up."
"What?"
"Lucy who?"
Thus I realized that the concept of fluency in a language is as much a matter of culture as it is language. Lydia knows who Jared Leto is– a B-list American celebrity that my own ROOMMATE has never heard of; she knows who Rod Parsley is (even I don’t know that one); but she can’t remember the word for crackers, doesn’t know what nutmeg is, and can’t understand why we don’t eat parsley in the US.
I on the other hand know the word for "fire extinguisher," "goat," and "lightbulb," in French, but can’t figure out how to ask my professor when the final is without hitting on him, I don’t know Monica Bellucci’s husband’s name, and I don’t know whether Michel is a man or woman’s name. I think Lydia is better off than I am.
Joyeux Noel,
The highly misunderstood B